


The Best Plans

by robotfvckers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Human, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Human Zenyatta, M/M, Massage, Masturbation, Prostate Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 23:58:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11092629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: Zenyatta has it bad for his brother’s new bodyguard.





	The Best Plans

Zenyatta stares at his brother’s bodyguard from the other side of the couch. It’s a bit hard not to: the man is huge, just over seven feet, with stark white hair and an impressive beard. He has no clue how his brother found a giant bodyguard while working full time during their move to Zenyatta’s college of choice. Reinhardt says he travels a lot for work, a freelancer, but doing what, he doesn’t say. Still, he is thorough and kind and strong, and that is enough.

Zenyatta pretends to read, following instead the seams of Mondatta’s shirt bulging against the impossible jut of Reinhardt’s biceps. The man reads a book with a creased spine and yellow pages. A small pair of spectacles rests on the bridge of his nose, one good eye slightly narrowed as it tracks the words. He seems at ease here, comfortably reclined on the only piece of furniture in the house large enough to hold him.

Zenyatta follows the gentle rippling of Reinhardt’s arm as he grabs a beer bottle off the coffee table and sips, the foam kissing his whiskers. Reinhardt’s tongue swipes across his top lip to catch the wayward drops, never glancing up from his book, turning a page with care that belies his appearance.

The man chuckles, and Zenyatta’s face heats, eyes darting back to his own book, scanning the blurring lines.

“You can have one, if you like.” Reinhardt offers. When Zenyatta looks up, the man is turned towards him, smile bright, teeth straight and perfect and eyes crinkled at the edges. Infectious, it seems, when Zenyatta smiles in return.

“I am not quite old enough to drink.” Zenyatta says, then cringes: reminding Reinhardt how much younger he is when all he wants to do is—

“Ach! Such stringent laws here. In my country, you can drink at 16.” He gestures to the case next to his feet. “Please. Feel free.”  Rein glances back to his book.

Zenyatta unfolds his legs, pads of his feet extending over the coffee table, holding the pose, trying to work the tightness out of his muscles. He started new forms the day before, the soreness only just beginning to settle. Zenyatta puts his feet on the floor long enough to grab a beer from the case, trying to ignore the charged space between them.

He twists the bottle open, the finest tremble of his hand making him fumble, surprised by the pleasant bitterness of it.

“Do you like it?”

Zenyatta nods, stares down at the bottle and takes another drink. He pulls his knees to his chest, displacing his textbook. Not like he could focus, not with Reinhardt so close to him. He hadn’t read anything in the past thirty minutes.

“I appreciate your presence, Mr. Wilhelm. I hope this job does not place an unnecessary burden upon you.” Zenyatta says, letting the pleasant buzz of beer loosen his tongue as he takes another pull, nails strumming against the dewed glass.

Reinhardt laughs, throaty and full, and Zenyatta tugs his shoulders tight before joining him, brought to ease by Reinhardt’s obvious joy.

“Forgive me, young master. I do not laugh at you. I am being paid to house sit while Mr. Tekhartha sleeps. I even get to read on the job! I find this situation quite...what is the word? Pleasant.”

 _Pleasant._  The word rings in Zenyatta’s ears.

“My brother has been in danger many times. This occupation is not without its stresses.” Zenyatta replies, sets his chin upon his knees even as his legs ache in the position.

“Your brother,” Reinhardt says with reverence. Zenyatta could listen to him say anything, and it would prickle the fine hairs along his arms and make his stomach bubble with giddiness. “Is a fine man. Works himself too hard. It is crazy to think anyone would hurt him.” Reinhardt sobers a little, seriousness in the lines of his scarred face. “I will not let that happen. You have my word.”

Silence settles over them as the promise hangs in the air. The words are a comfort, but shocking in their weight, his gentle, unyielding want stymied somewhat, casting Reinhardt in a new light. Heavier. More important. Zenyatta fingers the bottle in his hand, sipping again, shocked at how light it feels until he realizes it’s almost empty.

“Thank you.” Zenyatta responds softly, meets Reinhardt’s gaze to show his sincerity. The man’s face glows again when he smiles.

“Augh! I did not mean to cause such a glum atmosphere. I know you are not without your own stresses. School and social events on top of your training. Come!” Reinhardt booms, setting his book on the table and giving his thighs a hearty slap. “Stretch your legs. I will rub them down for you.”

Zenyatta startles, blush burning along his face.

“I cannot expect you to—”

“Nonsense! It is the least I can do since I am being paid to sit. You will not be disappointed. I am told I give good massages.”

His mind buzzes with the implications, of this perfect _opportunity_.

“I…Yes. I am somewhat sore.” Zenyatta mumbles, close to babbling as the flush touches his ears and disappears beneath the collar of his sweater.

Zenyatta unfurls his legs and upends the beer, praying the last drops will relax him, but his heart only pounds harder when he sets the empty bottle down with a rattle. It’s a slow process, with his mind buzzing and his body protesting, but finally his bare feet settle over the curve of Reinhardt’s thighs.

“Here. You should lie back.” Reinhardt says, catching Zenyatta’s ankle in his calloused, warm grip. His thumb and fingers circle easily around Zenyatta’s leg, and though he is thin, he feels absolutely tiny in Reinhardt’s hold.

“Okay.” He shifts until he’s almost fully horizontal, pressing his cheek into the armrest. Zenyatta forces himself to breathe, holds the air in his lungs for several heartbeats before shakily exhaling. He tries to ignore his embarrassed, tipsy haze, and slowly his body complies.

He catches a gasp behind his teeth at the first press of Reinhardt’s hands over the arch of his foot, twitches against it, shame twisting his stomach. Reinhardt had barely touched him. Stupid.

“My, you are so tense. Like your brother, if you do not mind me saying so. Overexerting yourself.” Reinhardt says, quieter than his normal boom, almost husky.

The grip tightens as Reinhardt works his thumbs in circles, a counterpoint to each other, gentle and firm, down the length of his foot. Zenyatta grips the hem of his sweater, unable to feign any sense of comfort, every line of his body tight.

But the man persists, rubbing in smooth, even motions, sole, instep, arch, heel. He presses deeper after a few passes, cupping and circling beneath each toe. The beer fully settles in Zenyatta’s stomach, and slowly he relaxes, muscles and mind softening beneath his hands.

He focuses on Reinhardt’s breathing, an almost comfortable silence falling over them as the man loses himself in his work. The thought makes him smile: Reinhardt never did anything halfway, even in this.

The pad of one huge thumb rolls into a particularly delicate area of his inner arch and Zenyatta gasps, the release of pressure molten, heat pooling pleasantly along his spine.

“You were insincere.” Zenyatta breathes, melting into the couch, feeling boneless as the tension drains from him like a wave receding.

“Oh?” Reinhardt replies, switching finally to Zenyatta’s other foot. The cycle begins again, tight soreness drifting into bliss.

“You are wonderful at this.” The words are out before he can think, and he stares at Reinhardt through the buzz in his skull and the dark of his eyelashes.

Reinhardt only smiles, cheeks dimpling with pride. “Flatterer.”

Zenyatta doesn’t want it to end, but slowly the tension wanes from his other foot, muscle by muscle, by practiced, confident hands. He bites the inside of his cheek, leans his face into the couch cushion harder, steeling himself for the moment when Reinhardt would tell him to sit up and pretend he wants the man to stop touching him.

Sure enough, Reinhardt’s hands slow and finally stop, resting on top of his ankle. Zenyatta resigns himself to sliding his limbs off the man’s thighs and back onto his corner of the couch when Reinhardt says.

“The legs are next. Would you mind turning over?”

Zenyatta flips, clumsy in his haste, shins landing in that muscled lap, and he swallows hard when Reinhardt _tugs_  his sweater to rest at the small of his back. He begins kneading into the knots of Zenyatta’s calves simply enough, the monk pressing his forehead into the arm of the couch and tries not to make noise. Each deep press fizzles into pleasure-pain, works small gasps and hisses from behind his trembling lips.

“It is okay to cry out,” Reinhardt says amicably as his hands press into the divot behind his knee, working the tight, sensitive tissue. “It will make the pain pass easier.”

Zenyatta nods, but still he muffles himself, every inch Reinhardt touches just that much closer to his thighs, his ass, covered by an old pair of threadbare leggings. Reinhardt finally presses just above the knee, swiveling his thumbs.

He keens, jerks against the cushions while Reinhardt chuckles.

“There you go. Let it out.” Reinhardt says, rolling his fingers deep, up and up and _up_ , until his impossibly huge hands skirt his ass, so close that Zenyatta wonders if Reinhardt knows what he’s thinking and the man is just _teasing_  him.

The blunt tips of his fingers shift just low enough to be chaste, and of course this whole thing should be chaste, but it isn’t when Zenyatta’s buzzed and thinking about the other ways he wants Reinhardt to feel him. Grope his ass, pull his hips flush against the man’s front. Those huge fingers plucking at his nipples, touching his—

Zenyatta freezes. He has to, else the firm, first drag of the man’s hands over the swell of his ass would send him grinding into the cushions. His cock, he notices with horror, is traitorously hard, and it throbs at the sensation, his body an instrument played by a master.

“You are okay? I should stop?” Reinhardt says, worry evident in his voice, but he doesn’t quite manage to still his hands, the aborted, almost nervous flitting of them catching against the thin fabric.

“N-no.” Zenyatta grits his teeth at his stutter, voice an octave higher and more breathless than he wants it to be. “It...it feels amazing.”

“Please tell me when it becomes too much.” Reinhardt murmurs, and Zenyatta hopes the man can’t see how his ears flush as he begins massaging again, rolling those thumbs into the tight muscles of his ass.

It’s good. So good. Every wayward push that works another pinpoint of tension from his body bursts behind his eyes, pools deliciously between his legs. He feels himself _leaking_ , wondering if he’s staining his leggings, hoping that he can lay here long enough that Reinhardt will excuse himself and he won’t have to flip over and show his brother’s bodyguard how _shameless_  he is.

And worryingly, so steady that Zenyatta doesn’t even realize it until it’s upon him, the pleasure is mounting. It plateaus, swells, just when he thinks he can keep it under control, the hands work him harder, deeper, so close to the cleft of his ass that he, he—

He _moans_  hard and real, and it’s impossible to pretend it’s from the steady release of pressure, even muffled into the cushions.

Reinhardt halts, hands heavy against his backside, and Zenyatta burns through his core, found out, he _knows_ , and—

The man breathes in sharply.

“Zenyatta. Do you...want me to stop?” Each enunciated word flows dreamlike in Zenyatta’s mind.

Very, very slowly, Zenyatta shakes his head, and the monk parts his thighs, trembling against the cushions, sure that Reinhardt can feel his desire.

“Please…” He mumbles into the couch, grinding his hips forward in a minute roll, still so nervous, so desperate for it, anxiety wound tight in his chest.

Reinhardt hums, lower, huskier than he’s ever heard him speak, and with care, spreads Zenyatta’s cheeks, fabric tightening dangerously, so thin Zenyatta worries it will tear, and he gasps at the sensation. It feels like Reinhardt is inspecting him, though it’s impossible, he’s still _clothed_.

“Lovely.” He murmurs, and Zenyatta squirms, each press hot and tight. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life.

Reinhardt works one hand deep into his muscles, but the other is much softer, more curious. The pad of a finger drags down the cleft of his ass, barely brushing his hole, and Zenyatta bites the cushion, angling his hips back. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, but the motion feels right, he wants anything Reinhardt will give him. The man chuckles.

“Hush now. Lie back.” The finger traces lower, over the tight swell of his balls, and Zenyatta feels so _full_ , all the tension Reinhardt had worked out of him brought back in a newer, more dangerous way. Reinhardt slips his finger beneath his balls, traces his large thumb along their apex.

“You are so swollen here. How long have you been naughty?”

Zenyatta gasps, can’t use words when Reinhardt keeps stroking him from behind, kneading his ass, easily spreading him with one hand while the other teases him so deliciously. He grinds into the cushions, not even trying to hide how he’s getting off, and Reinhardt sighs at his overeager motions.

“Ah. For a while then. This whole thing was a setup, was it not?” Reinhardt muses, and Zenyatta wants to protest but he still can’t think, barreling towards his peak faster than he thought possible, especially without a single hand on his cock.

“N-no, I-I…ah!”  Zenyatta’s finger sink into the cushions, body caught between Reinhardt’s hands and the cushions beneath him, muscles aching in his gut, trapped between two points of delirious friction.

Then Reinhardt shifts his fingers, curling just beneath his hole, and Zenyatta shouts into the armrest, whimpers high and hard as something inside pulses, _clenches_ , and it feels like he’s coming but it’s deeper than that, unavoidable and uncontrollable and Reinhardt doesn’t stop undulating his hands against that spot again and again and—

He comes, wailing into the cushions, fucking back against that addictive sensation, chasing his pleasure with the man who’s whispering praise and pet names while Zenyatta’s slickens the front of his leggings, twitching and jerking with embarrassing intensity while he whines and gasps through it. Even when Zenyatta collapses bonelessly, turning his head to the side and gulping in air, Reinhardt continues to piston his fingers, the spot going sensitive and too much and he tilts his hips to avoid the insistent press.

Reinhardt’s motions fade into something slower, more affectionate, tracing and petting, though even the gentler touches shiver up his spine.

“Impressive.” Reinhardt cooes, and Zenyatta hears the awe in his voice. “How wonderful it is to be young.” Then, more hesitantly. “How are you feeling?”

“I am...well.” Zenyatta manages, jitters finally working their way out of his system with the last of his aftershocks, mind hazy and soft around the edges. The world shifts as Reinhardt gently rolls him onto his back.

“Oh, _Schätzchen_.” Reinhardt breathes, drinking in the sight of Zenyatta blitzed and rouged, the front of his leggings darkened with cum. Zenyatta in turn stares at the unmistakable flush high on Reinhardt’s cheeks and the thick bulge between his thighs. “May I?”

Zenyatta nods once, exhales harshly when Reinhardt places a hand at each hip. He angles his body up, and with a few easy tugs Reinhardt exposes his wet, half-hard cock beneath his awed gaze. He moves so slowly, giving Zenyatta time to change his mind, to resist, but he doesn’t, doesn’t even think of it.

Reinhardt traces the stubbornly thick line of his cock, coating his fingers with slick.

“So _much_.” The man breathes, and it sounds like a swear. “I…” And it’s weird to see Reinhardt so hesitant, but the consideration makes Zenyatta want to give him everything. “I want to touch myself.” He catches his lower lip between his teeth, his one good eye studying him for any sign of distress.

“Please.” Zenyatta whispers, and then even quieter. “I would like to watch.”

Reinhardt’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline, and it sends a thrill through Zenyatta, knowing that he has the power to make the man react like that, grow all soft and embarrassed when it would be easy enough to tell him no.

Reinhardt reaches for his own pants, and the sound of the zipper seems loud in the quiet. Belatedly he wonders if Mondatta was roused by the sounds they were making, but he can’t worry about that for too long, focus narrowing on the jut of the man’s cock barely concealed by his boxers. _Everything_  about Reinhardt is huge.

Zenyatta shifts to his knees clumsily, about to tuck himself back into his leggings before Reinhardt stops him.

“No. I want to...look at you.”

Zenyatta swallows, mouth dry and stomach tightening all over again. He stares at Reinhardt, the way his nipples bleed through his shirt, how he could almost see the outlines of his hairy chest beneath the fabric. He wants to see _all_  of him and the thought of Reinhardt’s nakedness makes his cock twitch against his thigh.

“My, so eager.” Reinhardt laughs, just a tinge of bashfulness in his voice. The man wastes no time pressing his boxers down until the hem rests beneath the ripe swell of his heavy balls, framing everything so perfectly that Zenyatta can’t help but stare.

He sidles closer, gaze darting between Reinhardt’s face and his hand closing around his cock, still wet with Zenyatta’s own cum, pumping it once, the sound sloppy and thick and Reinhardt moans with it. His foreskin is huge, covering his cock completely on the upstroke, pre-cum bubbling out of the opening and glistening against his fingers and the thick veins on the underside of his cock.

The man licks his lips, watching Zenyatta’s slackened, lustful face, feeling Zenyatta’s hands balance on his thighs, his gasps rustling his beard as the boy unconsciously inches closer and closer to him, cock thickening to full hardness, beading and red like a cherry.

“God, but you are a sight.” Reinhardt growls, and Zenyatta’s hips shiver, hump forward into the air at the praise, the words making him ache with want. “You want me to fuck you?”

Zenyatta starts at the swear, so unfamiliar from Reinhardt, the man’s eye black with lust.

“I wouldn’t be able to. Has anyone ever had you before? It…” Reinhardt swallows, more pre-cum drooling from his cock as his hand quickens against it. “I would have to train you to take it. Fingers first. T-then toys.” He says in a harsh whisper. Zenyatta bites his own hand to keep from crying out, embarrassed, destroyed by the thought. “It would be so good sinking into you, when you are so ready, _sobbing_  for my cock.”

The noise Zenyatta makes startles even himself, and he grabs his own cock again, helpless against the vivid fantasy.

“I would milk you dry, so slowly, until you could hardly take it. Only after would I really start to fuck you…” Reinhardt swears in a thick burst of German, muscles bulging as he folds in on himself. Zenyatta is so close now, nearly on Reinhardt’s lap. “Ah, _fuck_.”

The first rope of cum catches Zenyatta by surprise, splattering against his sweater, another pulse landing on his hand wrapped around his cock. He stares in muted awe as Reinhardt clenches and relaxes, body drawing so tight it looks painful, hand never slowing until the last of his cum dribbles from his fat, swollen cockhead.

The monk presses his face against Reinhardt’s shoulder, nudging his hips forward into the man’s lap, cock glancing off his clothed stomach.

“P-please.” Zen mumbles into his ear, suddenly too embarrassed to meet Reinhardt’s gaze. “Touch me again.”

Reinhardt sighs, long and content. “It would be my pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Terms of Service](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11111775) by [Lacertae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacertae/pseuds/Lacertae)




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